Not the kind of thing you’d find in the kitchen drawer. Or used by a bartender for cutting lemons and limes for drink garnishes.

The others.

Jessica wondered when Catherine Tavernier had upgraded to a more professional piece of equipment. Exactly how many others there had been.

“What did you think was going to happen tonight?” Catherine asked. “Did you really expect an emotional reunion? For me to throw my arms around you and welcome you to the family? To stand back while you wrecked the Tavernier name and took half of everything I’ve worked so hard for over the last twenty-five years? I don’t fucking think so.”

Jessica was positioned exactly halfway between the door and the nightstand. The door was unlocked. The security chain was unhooked. She edged ever so slightly in the direction of the door.

Catherine’s gaze followed her. “Don’t even bother. I wouldn’t rate your chances of escaping through that door even if your bloodstream wasn’t pumped full of sleeping pills.”

Jessica feinted straight ahead, as though making a bid for the door, and she saw Catherine instinctively move in the same direction. Then she threw herself backward toward the nightstand instead. Jessica’s legs collapsed beneath her as her fingers brushed the cold metal of the Glock, sending the gun spinning across the polished surface. Her shoulder crashed hard against the nightstand, knocking the gun onto the floor with a heavy thud. Pain shot through Jessica’s shoulder and spread throughout the rest of her body as she stretched for the Glock.

Then the breath was knocked out of her lungs by the weight of Catherine Tavernier’s body slamming into her own.

Jessica glimpsed a raised hand, saw the knife coming at her fast. She threw an arm across her chest, felt the blade rip through the flesh of the bicep. White-hot pain cut through the numb fog of the sleeping pills. Hot blood pulsed from the wound.

Catherine shifted her position on top of Jessica. Pinned her arms with both knees and leaned in close. Her face inches from Jessica’s own. She pressed the cold knife against the soft, warm skin of her throat. Jessica could feel her pulse throb weakly beneath the blade. She gasped as the sharp point of the blade pierced the skin. Black clouds gathered at the edge of her vision. With what little strength she had left, she lifted her head and thrust it toward Catherine’s face. Heard, rather than felt, the satisfying crack of forehead meeting nasal cartilage. The work of one of Beverly Hills’ finest plastic surgeons ruined in an instant.

Catherine cursed and fell backward, releasing Jessica’s arms, allowing air to flood her lungs. She sucked it in, then reached for the Glock again. Grappling fingers, warm and wet, closed around the grip. Before she could gain proper purchase, Catherine’s hand was also around the gun, crushing the bones of her fingers.